


1956

by stet



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, Historical Hetalia, Sexual Harassment, general sexist piggery, they're at a WEDDING for god's sake, what is his problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-31
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-16 01:10:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14153400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stet/pseuds/stet
Summary: A Cold War AmeMona scribble, my half of an art trade. NSFW but not explicit.





	1956

**Author's Note:**

  * For [piggywrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/piggywrites/gifts).



> Went with country names this time.

America had never understood the popular fascination with royal weddings. He found them painfully boring. Once, he was fairly certain most of his countrymen had shared his distain, and he had assumed this was a strictly Old World peculiarity. But now American housewives devoured tabloid articles and full-color photo spreads like they’d spent two centuries longing for the chance.

He had not originally planned to attend, but the stock market was on fire, the gory embarrassment in Korea had finally slogged to a close, and for once, he didn’t feel like he had anything better to do than to crash some poor starlet’s wedding. The cake had almost been worth the trouble. Once that was over with, though, and there was nothing to look forward to but photo ops, dancing and the same stuffy dynastic drudgery he’d fought two wars to avoid, he decided to go looking for his host.

Monaco had never been his first choice in a mistress, but he wasn’t one to turn friendly Nations away. She was a little something extra to look forward to when he went across the Atlantic, like French bread or Italian chocolate. A little something sweet for 1956, enough to make the distant shrieks of Hungary go down a little easier. And she was usually easy to persuade.  

He slid in next to her at one of the huge banquet tables, wordlessly evicting some poor diplomat from his seat. She was chattering happily in French to some blue-blood’s uncle’s cousin’s sister’s wife, too enamored with her own voice to acknowledge him. He noticed she hadn’t finished her cake.

When he cut in, they switched to English. He couldn’t even remember how the rest of the conversation unfolded, it was so bland, but they must have made smalltalk for quite some time, long enough for a waiter to circle back and offer them each more champagne. After she finished her drink, the royal departed from their table with a wave. Then the two Nations were alone in the crowd, surrounded by anonymous tuxedoed men and diamond-studded women.

He asked her how she was, what she thought of the wedding, and wasn’t the weather here lovely, like the Napa Valley in springtime? And under the table, he let his hand rest on her knee. She flashed him a nervous smile, but made no objection.

They weren’t isolated for long. Nations had a way of finding each other. He could understand why the Italians were here (they were personal friends, right?), but not how, say, Austria had scored an invite. His politely neutral smile and piano-playing party trick could get him into any event worth attending, America supposed. Soon their table was stocked with former monarchies – including France, who paused to peck Monaco on the cheek before taking his seat.

The Europeans were all much more interested in each other than him. There was, evidently, a lot of continental gossip generated at an event like this, and Monaco was an eager participant.

She didn’t seem to notice as his hand crept higher, higher – until she  _did_ notice, all at once. When there was a pause in conversation, she whipped around to face him, her ringlets bobbing.

“Can I  _help_  you?” she hissed.

He grinned. “You aren’t bored?”

“ _No._ ”

“There’s nothing you’d… rather be doing?” His fingertips brushed the curve of her hip. She squirmed, fighting to keep her face impassive. He continued.

“I am a little  _busy_  right now,” she managed, through grit teeth.

He leaned over to her, speaking barely above a whisper.

“Come on now, baby.” His palm inched still further up her skirt. “The only thing more American than personal wealth is instant gratification. Don’t tell me you didn’t know what you were getting into.”

“You’re a pig.” She frowned at him, scooting back in her chair. 

“Mmm-hmm,” he hummed, fingers sliding under the elastic of her garter. “That’s what the Reds like to tell me.”

She took a little too long to reply, and when she did find the words, there was a tellingly hesitant note in her voice. “Are you implying something?”

“No,” he purred, mockingly drawing out the ‘o’. “Unless I misjudged you, Miss Monaco.”

Her thighs squeezed his wrist, warning him, but she kept her hands in her lap. When he dropped his hand back down to her knee, she exhaled slowly, as though she’d been holding her breath the whole time. She leered over at him again, this time through the upturned edges of her cat-eye glasses.

“Let’s talk later. We’ll get drinks.”   
  
He sighed, then relented, letting his fingers slacken. It wasn’t about the sex – that’s what women like her, Nations on the sidelines, always failed to grasp. She’d denied him something he assumed he needed no new permissions to take, and now he had to stew in that feeling, to cater to her as though this were a partnership of equals. As though he weren’t the only one in this room who could end the world, if he chose to. As though the rest of them would matter, if it ever came to that.

It wasn’t her fault, really. He shouldn’t expect her to understand. She was like the chrome hood ornament on his Ford, strictly decorative and entirely separate from the powerful engine churning beneath – and yet somehow necessary, as indulgent, stupid, beautiful things often were.

Still, he had to admire her moxie. And anything denied to him became that much more valuable.


End file.
